


Sweet Sacrifice

by jaeseoksoo



Category: Loveless, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Crack, M/M, Sherlock/Loveless crossover, nosy!John, past!Victor/Sherlock, vulnerable!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-28
Updated: 2012-02-04
Packaged: 2017-10-30 05:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,687
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/328492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jaeseoksoo/pseuds/jaeseoksoo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a world where people are divided into Fighters and Sacrifices, Sherlock is an Unbonded and Unshed Sacrifice which basically means he still has his feline Ears and Tail although he is already twenty-eight years old. Most people shed their feline appendages before they turn twenty. This trivial fact does not bother him at all until he begins to share a flat with one John Watson, an ex-army Unbonded Adult Fighter whose curiosity about Sherlock's continued virginity irritates and fascinates Sherlock. Are they each other's missing pair? Or are they just two blokes fate put together to get on each other's nerves?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bondless

**Author's Note:**

> A (not-)fill for the idea of the Sherlock Cast as high class cats. It traversed the same path for a while before it decided to become a Loveless crossover instead. The ears and tail sort of remain though. Crack. Don't take this seriously. Just have some fun.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John ran his fingers over his own Name. It was a constant reminder of who he was and the little itch on his shoulder where it appeared was a welcome distraction from the memories of his war days.

_ "You poor sweet innocent thing _

_ dry your eyes and testify. _

_ You know you live to break me. _

_ Don't deny, sweet sacrifice." _

\--

It has been five months since John Watson returned home from Afghanistan. If given a choice he would have stayed longer but Fate made its choice for him when it urged him during one ill-fated campaign to catch a bullet meant for a comrade. It was stupid really and if he didn't shield Lt. Fields then, he would still be fighting for Queen and country. Other soldiers would have just let that bullet hit their comrades for it was the most logical thing to do if they desired to survive longer. However, John had a Fighter's urge to prioritize others' lives over his own. He was an army doctor after all. He saved lives. It had been his duty to care for the lads and he'd be damned if he let the role end in the medical barracks. So there he was shielding people on the front lines, risking his own life until that cursed bullet to the shoulder.

\--

It has been five years since he was given a gun.  He had honed his physical combat skills to perfection and he rarely missed his targets which made him one of those indispensables to the platoon. Well,  not that they really needed guns to hurt their enemies in the first place. They had spells for that but after the World War I experience, it turned out spells dragged the fights and were much messier affairs so Adults, always the practical ones, stuck with guns.

In the real world unencumbered by war, people are born to be either Fighters or Sacrifices, Words and Names are like machine guns and feelings, like ammunition. For Fighters like John Watson, Words casted like spells are powerful enough to deal decent damage to enemy Fighters and protect their bonded Sacrifices. Names, on the other hand, are words that describe the nature of the person. A destined pair shares the same Name in the same area on their body. They appear like scars on their skin just before the destined pair turned into teenagers.

_ FACELESS. FRIENDLESS. LOVELESS. BELOVED. HATELESS. ZERO. CARELESS. LIFELESS. BREATHLESS. _

Since time began, they have been the basis of one's nature and cannot be altered once the Name manifested. However, there are those rare cases where the Names don't naturally appear and have to be carved by one of the partners on the same place where the visible Name is found. Names aren't like guns which are changeable. It has always been considered taboo to defy one's nature though recently, news of Blank Fighters whose Sacrifices died in battles and vice versa proliferated and it gave people excuse to alter their Names for new partners. The alterations were painful and only done out of necessity. John has yet to meet one who deliberately changed his Name for whimsical reasons.

John ran his fingers over his own Name. It was a constant reminder of who he was and the little itch on his shoulder where the name appeared was a welcome distraction from the memories of his war days.

\--

It has been five months but he still remembers the pain of the bullet that embedded itself in his flesh. It was his first time being shot with something tangible and not made of energy. His barely conscious mind noted how excruciating it was. It was not unlike being punctured with unblocked Spells during a Battle. The resemblance was in the pain he felt from the bullet wound which spread all over his body. It made him gasp for air just like a Constraining Spell that found its way to his throat and asphyxiated him; only that the point of torture and intense throbbing was in his shoulder and instead of the icy cold feeling brought about by Attack Spells, concentrated heat flared from the bullet wound.

It was also five months ago just shortly after he was shot that John found out how physical pain was nothing compared to the psychological blow on his ego after finding out who his assailant was. Shame and wounded pride always hurt more for Fighters like him. His Sacrifice would say otherwisebut Sacrifices never understood because they have always been wired differently from Fighters. They were pain receptors during proper Spell Battles. Everything was experienced physically. They absorb damages dealt to their Fighters and only few Sacrifices had the ability to cast Spells to defend themselves if ever they were forced into dangerous situations without a Fighter.

So it was on a humid afternoon the ego-bruising information came and John was still recuperating in the hospital. The temporary officer in command of his platoon brought him a folder containing details of the rebel shooter.

"She was brought down by Lt. Green during a surprise attack at the rebel base this sunrise. You were still unconscious then, Captain. We found her Sacrifice dead in one of the abandoned tents. His body was still warm so he must have committed suicide just after he felt the Bond with his Fighter severed."

John nodded curtly. _Bonds_ , he mused. _Necessary to strengthen the discipline and fighting capacity of a Fighter but unnecessary if the Fighter grew up alone without a Sacrifice_. Not everyone found his Sacrifice and vice versa although society talked less behind your back if you were officially Bonded with your true pair. The emotional liabilities outweighed the combat assets when one of the Bonded died. John found he was relieved when he wasn't _that_ emotionally invested with his Sacrifice. It ruled out the concept of suicide if ever one of them suddenly passed away. However, at that moment it wasn't the bond that John wanted to ask. The real question that bothered him since the officer started to talk escaped his lips before he managed to stop himself.

"She?" John asked. _So, _they make their women fight now? They sure are making use of__ all _possible resources_ , he thought wryly. John flipped through the pages of the file as the officer talked in the background.

"Yes sir. The woman was a Fighter. She was in her early teens judging by her physical appearance, and was still Unshed. She hasn't Bonded with her Sacrifice yet."

_ A teenager _ , thought John bitterly. An Unshed one! He was almost done in by an Unshed one. It was really shameful for John and the thought made him internally wince. John made sure none of those thoughts manifested in his expression. Unshed ones rarely participated in big scale wars. Well they _weren't_ really supposed to be on the bloody battlefield. The Adults made sure Unshed ones limited their violent encounters to Spell Battles where no one actually died or sustained physical damage which had triple effect on Unsheds compared to the Adults. This was a different matter. The rebels were truly getting desperate.

"Captain?"

"You may go Lt. Summers," replied John tiredly. Summers didn't move so John looked up at him quizzically. 

"I..I've been promoted, sir," Summers shifted on his feet a bit awkwardly. John observed how the younger man refused to meet his eyes.

"Captain now sir."

John nodded and reached out a hand to clasp Summers' own. He forced a smile that to his dismay refused to reach his eyes.

"Congratulations are in order I suppose, Captain Summers."

He was happy for the man, truly and he thought he deserved the promotion though he didn't think it would happen just after he was shot. The shot wasn't even fatal.  _Oh God,_ John internally groaned and slumped. He was _really_ going to be discharged. He was leaving the only life he knew for two years. Just because of one _Unshed teenager_. He did his best to not curse in front of the new captain.

He could feel the impending effect of that action creeping into his consciousness stealthily and unpleasantly. He handed back the folder to Summers who saluted and left the room in long hurried strides. John frowned after the door shut firmly behind the man. He then draped his arms over his eyes, shielding his vision from the sudden blinding light that seemed to dance behind his retinas.

\--

_ Within the light, the dead Unshed girl danced and laughed. Her cat ears twitched with delight as she waltzed with an invisible partner. Her tail swayed from left to right with the broken Fur Elise playing on the background like a soft lullaby that sounded horrible to John's human ears. John couldn't make out her face from the light which slowly wrapped around her little body until there was only light and none of the body left. John was almost blinded. It felt like hours of blinding agony until the light dissipated and all he could see was a red quivering dot forming words in the center of the dark void. _

**_ BONDLESS. _ **

So that was the pair's name. Their Bonded name. How does John know? Was the dead girl trying to tell him something? What does her name got to do with him? _Does it even matter at this point in time?_ _This_ point in _time_. John let the last thought drift away and succumbed to what he was sure was a long fitful sleep.

\--

It has been five months since the last time he consciously thought of the dead girl. John had dreams of her and her faceless Sacrifice every now and then. It didn't affect his waking life any more than it did the few weeks right after the shooting accident. The spacing out moments declined from an hour to just a few minutes. His vision of the girl diminished in length and vividness every week. Five months later he could barely remember the vision. His Unshed therapist said it was progress but John thought it was boredom finally seeping through his unchanging life. His mind finally got tired thinking of the last memory that equally connected him to the war and severed him from it.

It was _finally_ time to move on.

\--

Sherlock Holmes wasn't anyone's ideal flatmate but with a flat in the heart of London being offered for a reasonable price by a lovely warm-hearted landlady, John was willing to tolerate a sulky, experimental and violin-harassing flatmate.

John met Sherlock through Mike Stamford, an old friend from St. Bartholomew’s. It was almost the end of January, just five months after the Bondless Fighter girl stopped popping in for a visit in his head. John found out after his meeting with Sherlock that Mike never told the man anything about John. All deductions were made by the tall, lanky, alien-looking Sherlock Holmes. The man’s talent both impressed and freaked John out though he would admit the former so far outweighed the latter. No one can blame John for the freaking out part since it was the man’s first time to meet someone who knew everything about his life with just one look, literally.

Other than the obvious brilliance and snarky attitude, what left an impression though in John's mind were the furry black ears and the slightly plump long tail swishing behind Sherlock as he breathlessly ticked off facts about John’s life. Sherlock was reaching out for John's phone and talking about John's non-existent brother when John out of curiosity grabbed the Sherlock's sleeve and asked about Sherlock’s unshed appendages.

"You have Ears," pointed John out dazedly.

"Brilliant observation for something so blatantly obvious," deadpanned Sherlock as he wriggled his wrist free from John's light grip. He carried on with his deduction as if John's statement didn’t matter at all. Which, John thought, probably was.

"I mean ears _Ears_ , the Unshed- _uh_ \- feline-looking ones," repeated John shyly. Now he just felt stupid. Heat crept up his cheeks. He just hoped Sherlock didn’t mistake it for something entirely different. John sighed. Most people didn't bring up their acquaintance's Unshed Ears or Tail as a topic of discussion on their first meeting. Apparently, as John just exemplified, he wasn't one of those under the Most People list and so was Sherlock who seemed unfazed by John's blatant staring and interest in them. Sherlock stared at him with equal interest.

"Problem?" Sherlock's tail thumped over the experiment table in inconsistent rhythms. _Unhappy?_ _Irritated?_ John put that one down as unhappy and dropped the subject entirely.

"None and it's really none of my business," John finished lamely with a little self-deprecating laugh. _Well, that didn't sound so good_ , he thought. Sherlock merely raised an eyebrow before shrugging the statement off.

Adults' Ears and Tail if unshed before the human turned thirty, adapted a hue-changing quality which was lovely to look at under different lights. They also grew softer and more pliant to the touch unlike real felines' where the fur stiffened from age and constant exposure to external forces.

John continued his shameless staring while Sherlock finished his deductions. John suddenly had the strong urge to run his fingers over the other man's soft appendages but etiquette prevented him from doing so. Or so he thought. To his dismay, all the men he encountered in the army were already Shed even the new recruits. It had really been a long time since he saw and touched a grown man's Ears and Tail. He had forgotten how exquisite and velvety they looked and probably felt. Sherlock's Ears and Tail were just _there_ , so close and within his reach, _so tempting_...

Sherlock's were exceptionally mesmerizing that John’s resolve to keep away from the appendages crumbled minute after minute. Not long after, he reached one hand out until he felt Sherlock's surprisingly strong grip stopping his hand from touching the tip of his Ears. Sherlock's tail flipped restlessly behind him. _ Nervousness? Anger? Embarrassment? _ John wondered unable to decide on any emotion before Sherlock's firm reply pulled him out of his musings.

"Don't," Sherlock said in a tone which made John unconsciously make a tiny step backwards. John almost missed it but he gazed up (the man was at least _four_ inches taller than him) just in time to see Sherlock's Ears flatten down a split second before they straightened up, twitched and relaxed.

"Right, I’m sorry. I just didn't notice--"

" _It's fine_ ," cut in Sherlock as he donned his coat followed by a cozy-looking scarf.

"It happens," continued Sherlock without looking at John as he slid his fingers through black leather gloves.

"Sorry, what?" asked John with a confused look on his face. He seemed to be having a hard time keeping up today. John wondered if it was due to the unusual charm and annoying brilliance of the man in front of him. Or was it just the cat appendages? _It must be the tail_ , he reasoned in the end.

"People having the inexplicable urge to touch my Ears, do keep up," explained Sherlock with a dramatic sigh as he walked towards the lab door. He turned to look at John when the shorter man stated another obvious fact, to Sherlock's annoyance.

"Well sorry but you _do_ know Adult Ears are a rare sight in London," said John before hastily adding "what, of course you do" under his breath.

"So?" replied Sherlock impatiently. "That is exactly why I said it's fine. Your action was perfectly predictable and didn't come as a surprise to me. Interestingly enough, it came as a surprise for _you_. I noticed how your pulse increased in rhythm under my grip. Your pupils dilated every time I moved my Ears or swished my Tail and if you had not shed your Tail I am positive it would be madly vibrating. Then again, _military_. Obviously you should have more discipline than that. Natural curiosity getting the better of you then? Apparently. You seem to have curiosity in abundance. It _is_ hard to resist such natural urges though I must say your efforts at resistance were commendable. You were able to restrain yourself far longer than the other Adults I have met. You should have seen your face. Everything I needed to know was painted there as plain as day. Anyway, enough with this. I am off. My experiments await me! Meet you 7pm tomorrow. Our landlady will let you in. Good bye!"

The door closed with a bang. John wasn't able to get a word in throughout the man's monologue. He found he was blinking and gaping at the spot Sherlock occupied at a few seconds ago. He closed his mouth with a snap before something escaped without his knowledge.

"That was amazing," John said to no one in particular. "Was I that obvious? God. Apparently I was." He chuckled.

It was only after Mike cleared his throat and smiled did John realize that the man was still in the room with him and that he only knew Sherlock's name from Mike. Sherlock didn't actually grace John with an introduction. John felt slightly dejected until the door to the lab reopened. A tail, followed by slightly twitching ears and a smirking Sherlock popped in.

"Sherlock Holmes," said Sherlock with a grin. John noticed the grin didn't reach his eyes. "And the address is 221B Baker Street."

Then Sherlock winked. John felt his eyes blink a few times and his heart flutter madly beneath his sternum. If he had a tail, like Sherlock pointed out previously, this time it would probably be madly vibrating from fondness and interest.

_ Well, that was surprising indeed _ , John thought as he said goodbye to Mike Stamford and retired to his hotel with- if one looked closely enough- a little spring in his step.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Title of the fic and quote at the beginning are from Evanescence's "Sweet Sacrifice".


	2. Faithless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John was dying to know why Sherlock was still Unshed. His Ears and Tail were a sight to behold and a man as brilliant and beautiful as him didn’t strike John as one who encountered any scarcity of willing Bonding partners. Thus, the thought of Sherlock still Unshed bothered him like a particular itch he couldn’t quite scratch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 2 of the Sweet Sacrifice series.

They were sat on a wooden bench in the common room terrace. The location gave them an abundant view of the slanting hills that dotted the horizon like overgrown broccolis filled with lush uneven vegetation. It was early morning and most of the students were still oblivious to the world around them giving the brothers ample time to have the best spots of the Academy to do some early musing.

Mycroft Holmes, 25, the older Holmes had dark brown hair that reached his nape and fringes that brushed the highest point of his elegantly curved eyebrows. The first sign of plumpness was starting to show through his impeccable three-piece suit. He had the thick hard-bound "Utilizing Fighters: Political Implications of Deteriorating Battle Systems" spread open on his crossed legs. Mycroft had read the tome seven times since he received it as a gift from Professor Lochmon two Christmases ago. Upon finishing his fourth read of the monstrous book, he decided to turn it into his light reading material for early mornings like this where most of the time he sits in silence with his younger brother.

Sherlock Holmes, 18, the younger Holmes has a mind just as sharp and as brilliant as his older sibling except when he threw the occasional tantrum wherein he conducted himself like a 9-year-old. He has soft curly black hair and silky feline Ears that glinted beautifully under the sun. Most teenage girls envied his feline ears while the older women longed to run their fingers over his lustrous tail. It made Sherlock cringe sometimes. He has also been blessed with skin the color of porcelain and a model’s body with his long sinewy limbs and towering height. 

Sherlock had his legs tucked beneath his thighs with his elbows resting on his knees. His hands were pressed together below his chin in a pose as though in meditation. Meditating was far from Sherlock’s mind as he was surreptitiously glancing at his reading brother, trying to deduce what Mycroft had been up to the previous night. This proved to be a difficult task however since the older Holmes was already dressed for their classes that day while he was still in his silk pajamas.

Sherlock glared. 

"Still trying to deduce me Sherlock?" asked Mycroft mildly without looking at his brother. Sherlock only huffed in response.

"Galatea and I were practicing the new Battle Spells I have developed from archaic ones. Professor Lochmon was pleased. He supervised our training last night."

Sherlock replied with a frown.

"Your Sacrifice has been performing poorly since the last time I talked to you which was two weeks ago. The line between your eyebrows has deepened considerably. The stress has nothing to do with your classes because you excel in every single one of them. Your peers' jealous looks are testaments to that achievement. Professor Lochmon has not included you in his nightly excursions to subdue rogue Pairs for a fortnight now so that is also ruled out as a stress indicator. The only person you can tolerate to associate with frequently is Galatea and with the dark rings surrounding her eyes and her generally rumpled appearance as of late, I deduce that she knows she has not been meeting your expectations and thereupon doubles her effort to avoid suffering your disappointment. She has been losing weight in the process and neglecting her personal health. You at the same time are worried that she is overworking herself thus keeping you up at night and creating that line. And another give away is the Bondage Spell mark that has not yet faded from your neck which is a rare occurrence. Clearly, Galatea has not been defending you well." 

"Right as always dear brother," said Mycroft serenely as he shut close his book. He glanced at Sherlock and watched him smile momentarily before Sherlock released a breath he probably didn't even know he was holding. Sherlock's ears twitched appreciatively and his tail stiffened then quivered for a moment before it curled around his own thigh. Praising Sherlock always made the boy relax and preen so Mycroft made it a habit to dish out well-meaning words when opportunities arose. Sherlock’s rapid-fire deduction a while ago was one of those opportunities. _Although he missed out on that little row with the Professor_ , thought Mycroft tenderly.

Mycroft stared at the sunrise beginning to break over Sherlock's shoulder. It doused the younger man in a halo of golden light which made his cheekbones more prominent than ever. The tips of his hair glowed as though a thousand fireflies descended on them. A soft wind blew and Sherlock raised long fingers to keep his hair out of his eyes. _A dark angel who relentlessly toyed with humans_ , thought Mycroft. Sherlock was a breathtaking sight then and at that moment Mycroft's theories about Sherlock’s continued estrangement from people were further reinforced.

Obviously, it wasn't looks that kept Sherlock from finding himself a proper Fighter. If it weren’t taboo, both sexes would fall on their knees and beg him to bond with them and be their Sacrifice. However, Sherlock simply found the whole idea of sticking to a single Fighter boring and the concept of bonding laborious. He merely shrugged off the fact that it was taboo to switch partners from impulse and he knew even the more liberal portion of society heavily frowned upon those who switched partners like they changed clothes. Mycroft was privy to such cases and those did not even reach a hundred. The fact that Sherlock's temporary Fighters disapproved of his behavior and attitude made it more difficult for Sherlock to settle down. And it did not help that Sherlock was contented with a lifestyle resembling polyandry. According to Sherlock, new Fighters meant new data and Sherlock did everything to get his hands on new material to keep his brain from deteriorating.

Bonding for Mycroft had not been a dramatic affair and definitely not as problematic as Sherlock's. He had Shed and Bonded with his Fighter Galatea when he was Sherlock's current age. He was an exceptional Sacrifice and Galatea was an equally exceptional Fighter until recently. Therefore, it was not long before their partnership and unparalleled battle coordination became notorious inside and outside the Academy. In a few months, they became the envy of many a Fighter and Sacrifice pairs not only in their class but in the whole school. Offers of high security jobs came and went by without being entertained. Alas, Mycroft Holmes had other plans, much grander and superior schemes that didn't involve protecting rich individuals alone. He longed to twitch his non-existent Ears at the thought.

"Reminiscing again Mycroft?" drawled Sherlock. He stretched his arms in front of him and slouched against his seat so Mycroft had a clear view of the risen sun which consequently stung his eyes.

"The answer is still no," said Sherlock, head lolled back over the edge of the bench's backrest. His eyes were closed and he exhaled in small slow breaths, hands limp on his chest. He closely resembled a male version of Sleeping Beauty only with a perpetual pout on his lips.

Mycroft tapped Sherlock's knee with the _Utilizing Fighters_ ' spine. Sherlock peeked through half-opened eyes.

"Mummy won't be pleased," Mycroft said brusquely. He frowned. "She was expecting you to come home with a Fighter this Christmas, you know even if she or he weren’t your true pair as long as arrangements to bond would be included in the itinerary." The statement merited a scowl on Sherlock's face.

"Bonds bonds. _Bonds_ are troublesome! Tell mummy I won't be home for Christmas," muttered Sherlock, ears abruptly drooping. He was reflexively thumping his tail on Mycroft's thigh.

"Victor?"

The glaring blush that decided to set camp on Sherlock's high cheekbones upon the mention of the name was a dead giveaway. Sherlock's tail had stopped thumping and was settled comfortably on the space beside Mycroft's thigh. There was contentment in the action, Mycroft observed.

"Very well," Mycroft said and stood up. He unhooked his umbrella from the bench's armrest and replaced it over his arm. With his other hand, he drew out from his trousers an old-fashioned pocket watch.

"It's almost time for breakfast Sherlock." Sherlock remained seated on the bench, long legs sprawled comfortably on the space where Mycroft previously sat.

"Will you tell mummy?" _About Victor._

_ _ "Do you want me to?" _ I won't unless it is what you desire. _

_ _ "It's...nothing permanent," replied Sherlock, eyes fixed on the bird perched on the balcony's Victorian-styled railing. It was hopping a few feet behind Mycroft's right shoulder. It then flapped its wings a few times before it took off for the Academy’s West Tower.

"As always."  _Nothing new there,_ Mycroft mused. "But I will try," said Sherlock, uncertainty tainting his voice. If there was one thing Sherlock was not capable of, it was uncertainty. Mycroft squinted at Sherlock in contemplation of this new development.

Sherlock grunted. "I'll give him a chance. He seems interesting enough. It will be him, or no one else. Other people are impossible to deal with." 

"Very well," Mycroft repeated and turned towards the entrance to the common room. People have started to mill about. "Mummy will be informed of your non-attendance. She will be disappointed again Sherlock, tut." Mycroft glanced back with a smile.

_ “ _ _ One chance. Do spend the time wisely.” _

_ _ Sherlock nodded. It was all the thanks Mycroft expected.

\--

John got out of the cab at 221 Baker Street. The sun had just set and around him the street lights slowly flickered to life. Somehow, they reminded him of his sister Harry's fluctuating kitchen bulb that needed replacing. 

He stared at the bricked building in front of him and smiled. Only few people were on the road at that hour and he found the prospect of living in a quiet neighborhood satisfying. He nodded to himself and walked towards the door. He was about to knock when the door opened and revealed a little old lady wearing a purple cotton dress. John smiled at her. 

"Come in come in," ushered the lady. "You must be John Watson, Sherlock's new flatmate. He said it was you. Come come, your young man is upstairs waiting." 

"I'm not his y--" a slightly flustered John managed to begin before being cut off with "Be a dear and give him this parcel. His friend from the morgue dropped by an hour ago to deliver that for Sherlock. Spell experiments, you know," finished the lady with a conspiratorial tone. "I'm Mrs. Hudson by the way, a pleasure to meet you," added the old woman while extending her hand. John gripped it firmly for a few seconds and flashed a friendly smile. 

"The pleasure is mine Mrs. Hudson," replied John lightly. "If you don’t mind," he asked while glancing at the direction of the stairs.

"Oh go ahead dear. I'll bring tea for you boys in a few minutes." 

“That’s lovely, thank you.”

“But just this once dear, I’m not your housekeeper,” Mrs. Hudson finished with a chuckle. John found he was beginning to like his new landlady. It was a promising start. 

\--

"Finally, John. I thought Mrs. Hudson planned to keep you down there till sunrise," said Sherlock as he sauntered towards John and extended an arm. 

"You’ve got a nice landlady Mr. Holmes, what can I do?" replied John as he gripped and shook the offered hand. 

"Just Sherlock," said the taller man with a fleeting smile. John watched as Sherlock walked—no, _glided_ towards the center of the sitting room and gestured animatedly at his surroundings. John noticed the end of Sherlock's tail snuggly tucked inside his loose coat pocket. When he felt temptation tug at his mind again, he averted his gaze and concentrated instead on the skull above the fireplace.

"Do you like the place?" "Is that a human skull?" They both said at the same time. A few seconds later, the two men answered simultaneously again with Sherlock's "Yes, it was a friend's" and John's "This seems very nice." The second time ended up with John trying to stifle his laugh behind his hand and Sherlock looking at the skull with a lopsided smile tugging at his lips.

"You go ahead," continued Sherlock as he walked towards the kitchen. "So will you be sharing with me?" he asked as he rested his hands on the chair near his unfinished experiment which almost took up the whole kitchen table. It was a messy sight which John eyed with a little distaste.

"Well yes, I suppose this could work but if only I could put all those boxes somewhere," John trailed off as his eyes alighted upon the piles of books in delivery boxes. They were littered all over the sitting room furniture. Sherlock hurriedly crossed the room to take down the boxes from the adjacent sofa for John to sit on.

"I had my belongings moved yesterday. The sitting room would be not as cluttered once I properly unpack," explained Sherlock as he disappeared through a door— _his room?_ wondered John— and the thump of a heavy box hitting the floor was heard.

"Alright," answered John when Sherlock reappeared. "I could help you tomorrow. I don't have much stuff to unpack so I can finish early and probably help you with yours." 

Sherlock paused and looked at John with a piercing gaze. John resisted the urge to squirm under the scrutiny.

"Interesting," he muttered before gracefully depositing himself on the sofa. _Just like a Victorian heroine_ , mused John. Unlike a heroine though, Sherlock was all angles and flats.

When Sherlock snatched something from the table beside the sofa, the shade of the fur on his Ears turned into a cool midnight blue under the light of the lamp. John found himself staring again at the fluffy appendage. It was only when he felt Sherlock's eyes on him did he gaze back into pale blue-grey orbs that seemed to have dilated considerably the past few seconds. Sherlock's tail was casually curled around his thin wrists until it repeatedly slid towards Sherlock's knuckles then back again towards his wrists. The sensual movement secretly fascinated John.

"Dinner?" asked Sherlock out of the blue, his tail flicking up and down on his thigh. "Famished," John replied. As if on cue, his stomach rumbled in agreement. Sherlock flashed him a small smile before springing up and walking towards the door. Sherlock’s tail brushed John’s arm as he turned to look at him. John inhaled deeply.

"Shall we? There's this restaurant in Soho I always eat at for free."

\--

John was dying to know why Sherlock was still Unshed. His Ears and Tail were a sight to behold and a man as brilliant and beautiful as him didn’t strike John as one who encountered any scarcity of willing Bonding partners. Thus, the thought of Sherlock still Unshed bothered him like a particular itch he couldn’t quite scratch. 

Throughout their dinner—which John vehemently refused to consider a date—John learned that Sherlock was currently unemployed. _That bit explained the need for someone to share flat expenses with_ , he thought. Sherlock apparently took paying and non-paying cases where Fighter training was required. Sherlock was also a top-rank Sacrifice (a fact that made John heat up). He was one of the few in Britain who had remained undefeated while putting down more than a hundred Pairs during the 27th Spell Battle Tournament. The fact made John curious of the identity of Sherlock’s Fighter. He asked Sherlock who his Fighter was but the man clammed up and refused to comment. 

As John took the second to the last bite of his garlic bread, he wondered if Sherlock would finally elaborate on his state of Unshed. He shook his head. _Best not to push it tonight_ , he thought. He glanced at Sherlock when he thought the man wasn't looking and saw a corner of his lip quirk up in amusement. Sherlock's Ears were drawn back, almost flattened against his curly hair. 

"In time John," said Sherlock. "In time."

"How did you--? Wait no, don't answer that," John replied with a little wave of his hand. "You're bloody brilliant you know that? The thing about my phone and my sister yesterday was impressive." 

Sherlock paused in the middle of his nibbling of the bread. His brows were in danger of colliding mid-forehead the way they were drawn together.

"Sister," said Sherlock flatly before groaning dramatically. "Oh _sister_! There's always something."

"Glad to know you make mistakes too," joked John. He felt lighter when he was in the company of Sherlock and although he had only known the man for one day, somehow he already felt bold enough to joke around with him. After Afghanistan, Sherlock’s energy was the closest John had to an exhilarated feeling.

Sherlock bristled at the suggestion and said with a wave of his fork, "Harry is a man's name although of course I see now how it can be a contraction for Harriet. And Harry was married to Clara so one could not be blamed if the first logical assumption was to think of Clara as the woman in the relationship and Harry, the man, biologically at least," Sherlock finished with a stab of his fork to a stray meatball on his plate. The conversation, meanwhile, drove John's mind into other areas. _This curiosity will get me poked in the eye with a fork by the end of the evening_ , he thought humorlessly.

"So you have a girlfriend then?" asked John, his eyes fixed on the glass of red wine he was idly toying with. Sherlock gave him a piercing look by way of response, tail softly thumping the empty couch beside him in an irregular beat. He answered a few seconds later.

"Not my area."

"Boyfriend then? Which is fine by th--"

"I know it's fine."

John put down the glass and leaned back, tilting his head a bit before continuing the interesting interrogation. It was giving him a bit of dangerous hope.

"So, do you have a boyfriend then?" asked John, body moving forward as he leaned one of his elbows against the table. He hoped he wasn’t smiling but Sherlock’s expression said otherwise.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, his cheeks turning a bright shade of crimson. He avoided John’s gaze and fiddled with the napkin near his wrist. John found Sherlock’s embarrassment somewhat endearing to his surprise. 

"You have a girlfriend," stated Sherlock without inflection. He had regained his composure and the look on his face bore no resemblance to the mortified expression it previously displayed. 

"Indeed I have," John said. He expected Sherlock to deduce it the moment the man started unraveling his life story yesterday. "She also happens to be your Sacrifice. Meanwhile, your face is about to ask me 'Isn't that always the case?' and the answer to that is no, people may choose to lose their Ears and Tail to their Bond Partner but they may not share any romantic interest with each other.

"However as far as I can see based on your unshaven face and your old jumper- no effort to look good because there's no one to impress- you have not seen her for a long time. A good guess would be around three to five months. You have not maintained constant communication to rekindle what little feelings remain between the two of you if your blatant come-on a while ago would be taken into consideration."

John internally winced when the word 'come-on' was mentioned. It was true that he and Marsha have not been in contact ever since he got discharged. The last time he heard news about her was from his men. They told him their superior had ordered Marsha to be transferred to a different platoon and partnered with another Fighter without consideration of John, her previous partner. Since then, John had not been told if she was bonded to her new Fighter but if she had, she was being mum about it to her own boyfriend. To John’s surprise he didn’t feel angry or bitter about it. Perhaps that was due to the fact that Marsha wasn’t his _destined_ pair. Still, as one who gives importance to clean break offs he would have willingly ended his relationship with Marsha if only he had a way to contact her. 

"So have you maintained contact with your boyfriend?"

"I haven't spoken to him since the tournament ended," said Sherlock, voice strained. John thought it was the cue for him to stop prying yet he was _still_ curious to know more about Sherlock's past even though such early stage of acquaintanceship was not the proper time to inquire about very personal details. John pressed on.

"What happened? If you don't mind sharing of course," amended John. _Being too nosy Watson_ , he chastised himself. Sherlock merely shrugged as he took his coat and stood up. "I have to clear up the things I've temporarily deposited in your room, _doctor_. We need to go. My irrelevant past can be discussed some other time."

John understood where the line was drawn. Sherlock only allowed him a glimpse for now. The window of opportunity had yet to appear again. Many questions cluttered his mind but he knew that Sherlock will give him answers when he deemed John trustworthy enough. John had always been a patient man so waiting was the least of his worries so wait, he shall. He will eventually understand and learn everything there is to know about this new flatmate of his. All in due time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 and 2 were unbeta-ed and un-britpicked. All errors are entirely my fault.


	3. Doubtless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "People also need to know that the top rank Sacrifice Sherlock Holmes is not infallible. Besides, Blank Fighters could easily sympathize with you here. And they'll know you aren't Bonded yet. Don't you ever want to have a permanent Fighter?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 3 of the Sweet Sacrifice series. This goes up to PG-13, I think.

"Victor," came a voice from behind followed by a door silently closing.

Victor Trevor was propped up on his four-poster bed. He had slightly-tanned skin and few light freckles dusted his high nose. His short blonde hair stuck on all ends, still tussled from sleep. His equally blonde Ears were barely visible in the mop of rumpled hair. He had the kind of body achieved only through regular participation in rigorous Fighter drills back at the Academy. His sky blue eyes were half-open when he grunted a reply to his early morning visitor. 

"It's too early."

"Your parents are away," replied the owner of the voice. Victor felt his bed dip as a body settled and sat on the little space right beside his legs. Long fingers grazed his hip not long after. Victor groaned when the same fingers started to touch his tail in a caressing way.

"They're always away," the half-awake boy grumbled. "We stayed up late last night perfecting that Advanced Releasing Spell and I ache all over. How are you even able to move about this early?" Victor took the closest pillow and buried his face in it with a dramatic groan hoping his friend would get the hint and leave him for at least another hour or two.

"I've recuperated enough. We need to practice now. The tournament is--"

"--in five years! Dear Lord we have all the time in the world Sherlock! So now will you please just let me sleep?"

"No we don't," came Sherlock's subdued reply. He was still holding Victor's tail between his fingers but he wasn't caressing the furry appendage anymore. The change in Sherlock's tone made Victor stop trying to suffocate himself in the pillow. He sat up and looked at his friend who was currently wearing the most adorable pout he has ever seen. He would have laughed if Sherlock didn't look so serious even with his little sulk. The younger man's ears were flattened to the side of his head which signaled worry and sadness. It didn't help that his eyes looked glassy as though he was about to cry.

"What do you mean Sherlock?" asked Victor drawing closer into Sherlock's personal space.

One of the perks of being a pair for some time (even though still Unbonded) was the unspoken permission to invade one's personal space in times of distress. They didn't have sex for the act was considered sacred for Unshed ones and it required Bonding and permanence in the end. Victor was already twenty so he had no qualms bonding with Sherlock and staying as his permanent Fighter. He loved his friend and was willing to protect him forever but he wasn't sure Sherlock was ready for the permanence brought by Bonding. It was a discussion he needed to bring up with Sherlock for another time.

Victor raised his hand to touch Sherlock's curls and then his flattened ears which evoked a little shudder from the boy. Victor frowned. His Sacrifice was clearly troubled by something and one of Victor's role as Sherlock's Fighter was to keep him safe from both physical and emotional pain. It reassured Victor that his close proximity helped calm his friend albeit temporarily.

"Your parents. They're getting suspicious. They're not too liberal about our rel--partnership. They might order you to sever ties with me. Find a lady Sacrifice instead. That is the reason I believe we don't have all the time in the world."

Victor rubbed his own eyes with the hand that wasn't on Sherlock's wrist.

"They will understand, Sherlock," said Victor with a little desperation. "They can see how good we work together. They know our records in school. Ever since we paired up our performance improved a lot. We will shine together in the tournament! This,” he gestured “…partnership, no, this _relationship_ is good for us, for our future. They won't take that away from us. They won't take me away from you."

Sherlock blinked at Victor, disbelief written all over his face. His Ears have considerably straightened throughout Victor's little pep talk.

"I won't let them," Victor added for good measure. That last one put a little shy smile on Sherlock's face. Victor was hoping for a grin but it was enough for now. _One little smile at a time_ , he thought fondly as he ran his thumb over Sherlock's palm. Sherlock rarely smiled after all.

"But what if--" said Sherlock, smile abruptly dropping from his face. Victor hastily pressed his index finger over Sherlock's plump lips to cut off whatever Sherlock was about to say. Sherlock didn't move.

"I promise you the tournament, Sherlock," whispered Victor, resting his forehead over Sherlock's own. "If I fail to stop my parents from intervening, I promise, at least until the tournament ends, you'll have me." He lifted his finger from Sherlock's lips and saw Sherlock take a deep breath. Victor gave him a wry smile.

Before Sherlock could exhale, he leaned in.

\--

"What are you typing?" asked Sherlock as he read John's latest blog entry over the man's shoulder. His Ears twitched with curiosity.

"Stuff about you, about us," answered John without pausing from his typing. "About our little excursions to subdue rogue Unbonded Fighters causing public disturbance. Anyway, they seem more fun to write about than my boring excursions to treat the common cold everyday at St. Bart's. And more people seemed to seek services for your Fighter training regimen after I posted about the Norwood Builder and the one with Lady Frances Carfax a few months ago. Sacrifices flooded that one with nice comments for a while. The point is, you get cases to keep you from being bored and you also get income to help pay the rent. " 

"Don't write about the coded one," Sherlock complained when he got interested enough to peek at what his flatmate was typing about. "That was a messy affair. ‘ _Case of the Dancing Fighters?_ ’ Oh please. That is lame." 

John ignored the insult. He knew when Sherlock was being serious in insulting his intelligence and when he was being a half-hearted dick just about to embark on a sulk. This was one of the pre-sulking ones. 

"People also need to know that the top rank Sacrifice Sherlock Holmes is not infallible. Besides, Blank Fighters could easily sympathize with you here. And they'll know you aren't Bonded yet. Don't you ever want to have a permanent Fighter?" 

"..."

\--

Almost a year has passed since John moved in with Sherlock. It took a while but John eventually got used to Sherlock using him for his Spell experiments. He was already a Blank Fighter, one who has no more ties with his previous Sacrifice, so he could be used by another Sacrifice as long as he gave his permission and devotion during the test. Sacrifices may give the orders in battle yet Spells are spoken only by Fighters. The power to hurt and protect using Words was the area of Fighters so for Sherlock's experiments to be tested, he needed a Fighter so he needed John. 

The first time John helped Sherlock, they almost blew up Sherlock's room when the man decided to see the effect of a new Containing Spell in an area the size of a bedroom. John didn't want to proceed with the experiment but the threat of a colossal sulk and scratchy violin playing that could go on until the wee hours of the morning eventually made him give in. 

"Okay, try keeping the energy within the room. If there were another Fighter here, imagine how you would project your energy in an enveloping manner as if you're constraining his movements. The dummy at the center of the room would suffice. Use the Words that come to mind with my prompting," ordered Sherlock with an impatient tap of his foot and a flick of his tail. 

John did close his eyes to concentrate and felt the Words flow into his consciousness. He felt his Fighter aura transform into expendable energy that accumulated at his fingertips. He wiggled them experimentally and took a deep breath. He opened his eyes slowly. They glowed like sapphires. 

Sherlock felt his breath catch in his throat when John evoked the spell and used his Name, the name he hasn't heard for five years, the name he didn't remember telling John about. 

" ** _We are DOUBTLESS. One without doubt. I constrain you with the power of belief, I envelope you in this vacuum of light, unmoving, lost to the living and sealed for as long as we desire. Constrain!_** " 

As John shouted the final Word, the room shook and Sherlock saw the dummy contort as if it was being squeezed by a pair of gigantic hands, exerting pressure on all its sides. His idea worked, John managed to word it the way he thought the spell would work most effectively. Now though, the energy had to be released back to the source or the room would explode. 

"John I need you to release it now," said Sherlock, tail flipping in agitation. "Hurry!" 

John nodded and extended his left hand forward before pulling it back with his fist closed as if he caught something in his hand. 

" ** _Release!_** " John commanded. The dummy emitted a bright blue light that travelled back to John's arm. It circled his hand for a few seconds before dissipating. The dummy regained its old shape before constriction. Sherlock looked at John. His eyes were also back to normal. 

"Impressive," commented Sherlock with two little claps. John looked pleased. 

"It wasn't alive. The Spell was unhindered by another force. If it were alive I might have failed," said John humbly. He collapsed on his back on Sherlock's bed. He suddenly felt tired. 

"Who knows?" replied Sherlock. He walked towards the bed and climbed over John without preamble. His long limbs were on either side of John's body. It made John squeak in surprise. 

"What I do want to know is how you knew my Name," Sherlock said with a little purr on the word 'name'. His Ears were pointed forward and his tail was sliding over John's thigh in a playful manner. John wanted to squirm but the friction the action made threatened to wake a part of his anatomy he was sure he didn't want the man above him to feel. He gulped and tried to remember how to breathe. 

"The spell wouldn't be that powerful if you didn't evoke my Name. Your Name would not have the same effect since you're a Blank Fighter. Oh and yes John, I know _your_ Name," whispered Sherlock. He leaned close to John's ear, grazing it when he moved his lips to tell John his name. 

" ** _FEARLESS_** ," breathed Sherlock on John's earlobe. John could feel himself hardening from Sherlock's deep voice which wasn't diminished by the man's tail casually moving back and forth over John's strained trousers. John could feel Sherlock smirking above him. 

"So tell me. How _did_ you know?" asked Sherlock. He reached out a hand to caress John's cheek but was stopped midway by a hand on his wrist. 

"This," answered John, rubbing the rough expanse of skin on Sherlock's wrist. "I’m not exactly blind Sherlock. It's faded but still readable under the proper lighting." When Sherlock didn’t pull away, John felt encouraged and continued stroking. 

"Observant," murmured Sherlock, tail now back to flicking behind him to John's relief.

"Did it hurt?" John asked. The incisions were ragged and ugly. Clearly, the Name didn't appear naturally. The letters D and B were so thin and deep they were barely recognizable as letters. 

"Victor was careful," Sherlock said. He got off John and sat beside him instead. He was looking at the exposed skin just a few inches from the base of John’s neck. It was barely readable under the darkening room. 

_FEARLESS._

Conscious of the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze, John lifted his hand to touch his own Name.

John couldn't really remember the day of his Naming. It was a forced one. He was willing to wait for his name to appear but the Adults who planned to have him enlisted in the army were insistent on carving one for him and Marsha, a childhood friend who was also nameless then. The experience was vague and hazy in his head. All he remembered were two things: thin pain from a sharp object being plunged into his neck and Marsha who screamed beside him on a cold steel table. It was the most terrible sound in the world. John shuddered. Sherlock's voice pulled him out of his reverie. 

"He didn't have steady hands but he was gentle," Sherlock said in a flat tone while he gazed at John's face. 

"It still hurt of course but I didn't want him to know. He was doing his best so I, in turn, did my best to keep steady, minimize the damage. His Name appeared naturally when he was twelve," finished Sherlock. 

"Is he your--?" 

"He wasn't my destined pair but he was my boyfriend," quipped Sherlock. There was an interminable pause after that. John would have thought Sherlock had fallen asleep if the man wasn't staring at the ceiling with a faraway look in his eyes. After what seemed like hours to John, Sherlock shifted and lied down beside John. He rearranged his limbs so that his knees were over John's thighs and his hands settled snugly beside John's jumper-clad shoulder.

"We were together. Everything was going well for both of us until five years ago. I knew what I had with Victor was not a permanent arrangement so I never Bonded or slept with him to Shed. After the tournament, his parents ordered him to leave London for America. With them. They were happy and proud of course. Their son won the Fighter tournament but they weren't happy that it was with me," said Sherlock, voice laced with a bit of bitterness. 

"They wanted a grandchild to continue the strong Fighter bloodline of the Trevors. I couldn't provide that to their son. I told Victor he could go impregnate some whore just to appease his parents but that didn't turn out well." 

"Indeed, that didn’t sound so good," said John with a sad smile. His eyes were fixed on Sherlock's. 

"I thought so too. He punched me not long after I uttered that. He said it was ‘unfair to me since we were in a relationship’ and ‘how could I even think such travesty’?” Sherlock shook his head. “He still left for America that same week though. Victor didn't end our relationship but he never called or sent any emails after that." 

"You think his parents...?" 

"He had a choice, it wasn't as though his parents monitored everything he did," Sherlock said dryly. "Well, apparently he got Bonded to his destined Sacrifice in America! She had the same Name as his. Could you believe that? He met her during a Charity Ball. It was my brother who provided me with the information. It was also his opinion that perhaps Victor thought he was doing everyone a favor by withholding certain delicate information from _me_.”

"So you never heard from him again after the Bonding?"

"Never but my brother called me four months ago. He told me Victor was dead," said Sherlock with as much indifference as he could muster. John wasn't fooled. Sherlock still clung on John's jumper like it was a lifeline and he could barely feel Sherlock breathe beside him.

"Christ," John muttered. "And you never told me."

"It wasn't any of your business then," said Sherlock. He was still clinging to John’s sleeve so he turned to his side and pulled Sherlock close. When Sherlock didn't move away but instead buried his head on John's chest, he wrapped a comforting arm around the taller man. Sherlock's Ears tickled John's neck but he ignored the itch. 

"Is it my business now?" asked John tentatively. He wanted to run his fingers through Sherlock's hair to soothe him but he doubted the action was welcomed. 

"If you choose to make it so," mumbled Sherlock against his chest. His arms were pinned between him and John. It was getting uncomfortable but he didn't pull away from the embrace. He felt John draw him closer which pressed his nose to the soft material of John's jumper. Sherlock inhaled and smelled lavender, laundry soap, tea leaves and underneath them all, what he supposed must be John’s unique scent. It calmed him down considerably. He didn't even realize he needed calming down but the beginnings of a sniffle told him he must have cried at one point of their unprecedented cuddling. 

"I’m your friend, Sherlock," whispered John as he stroked the man's back. "And lately, also your Fighter. I _do_ want to know what distresses you because normally you're this bright and insanely brilliant ball of energy with a hobby of targeting and defeating rogue Blank Fighters and that helps people _a lot_ whether you admit it or not.” Sherlock harrumphed. “And it's painful to see your light flicker by something this emotionally big. I want to help," ended John, ignoring Sherlock’s little protest. 

"You're already helping John," said Sherlock as he lifted his head from John's chest. He moved his hand that wasn't trapped between them and brought it forward. He stopped when it hovered a few centimeters away from John’s face and started to draw back his fingers in hesitation when slowly John leaned in and landed a feathery kiss on the knuckle closest to his face. For a moment, Sherlock stared at John and then he felt his heart start to beat like the wings of a hummingbird mid-flight. 

"John?" Sherlock exhaled.

John made a shushing sound and took Sherlock's hand delicately between his own and pressed another kiss this time on the inside of his wrist where Victor's Name was carved. John was sure Sherlock was feeling the opposite of that carving.

"No need to doubt me Sherlock," reassured John in a soothing voice. He felt Sherlock's tail settle over his thigh. He longed to stroke it.

"Doubt is not in my vocabulary. I am _DOUBTLESS_ remember?" breathed Sherlock with a little chuckle as he felt John exhale on the skin just below his ear. He forgot how sensitive he was when it came to physical contact (since he _deleted_ that particular data ages ago) but John's light touches reminded him how such contact easily provoked him to teeter over the edge of carnal knowledge. It made Sherlock blush furiously at the thought. 

John chuckled when he kissed Sherlock's Ears and felt how warm it was through the short fur. Sherlock squirmed and gently pushed John away. His legs felt like jelly beneath him.

"I, um, there's an experiment that I need to attend to. It is crucial that I get the results after a certain time of binding energy particle exposure and--"

"It's fine Sherlock, you can always tell me if this makes you uncomfortable," John said affably. "Someone told me before that physical contact calms down Unshed ones when they're on the verge of a break down."He sat up when Sherlock almost fell from the bed from edging away too much.

"I most definitely am not on the verge of a breakdown," Sherlock answered with as much conviction as one who barely fell to the floor and is currently unbalanced could muster. 

"Come here," John said patiently. "Just stay still for one minute." 

Sherlock crawled forward on his fours and sat in front of John who had his back propped up against the headboard. 

"I want to try something," said John. He extended his hands and wiggled his fingers. Sherlock raised an eyebrow when John made a bowing motion towards him. The excuse of an experiment forgotten, Sherlock mimicked the action until his head was level with John's chest. He felt fingers against his temples, steadying and supporting his head. He rested his elbows on his crossed legs to prevent himself from falling face-first into John's lap. He fidgeted for a few seconds before he stilled completely. 

When John was sure Sherlock was comfortable in the position, he moved and pressed his fingers in a circular massaging motion which began at Sherlock's temples. His fingers slowly made their therapeutic way up to where Ears met scalp, pressure from all ten digits never easing up. Sherlock closed his eyes in relaxation. He was surprised to find he enjoyed John's ministrations. His tail was loose behind him and curled at its tip and his Ears twitched every time John's fingers massaged the spot just beneath them. It tickled him in a pleasant way. 

"Want to recline on your stomach?" asked John after a few minutes (or was it a few hours? Sherlock wasn't really sure). 

Sherlock grunted and lowered himself on the bed in a position perpendicular to John's sitting form. He tucked his hands beneath his chin and waited for John to continue massaging him. He was starting to get impatient when on the third minute of waiting he felt a heavy weight settle on the back of his thighs. 

"Is this alright?" asked John in a perfectly calm voice. "I could ease off if--" 

"No it's fine," Sherlock found himself saying with a croak. "The weight is comforting. Do continue." 

John nodded although Sherlock didn't see him do so. He began massaging starting at the small of Sherlock's back, expertly loosening knots of muscles under his fingers. Sherlock elicited a groan every now and then which made John's face heat up. It was only sheer will and thoughts of dead bodies scattered during the war that stopped him from getting an erection. It became more difficult to do so when he reached Sherlock's lower back and the man exhaled and moaned when John unknotted a particular sore spot of muscle. He felt sweat trickle down his spine. 

"John--ah," Sherlock elicited with an inappropriately erotic gasp. John was starting to regret initiating the massage. It was a half-hearted regret to his surprise.

"Feels great right?" asked John in a voice he hoped didn't give away anything. He couldn’t see Sherlock’s face and the man only nodded in response until he suddenly flipped to his front so that John's fingers were splayed instead on the buckle of his belt. John felt his trousers tighter than usual and then there were hands on either side of his hips. He looked up and saw a lopsided smirk on Sherlock's face. John knew he could never resist that smirk.

He leaned down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still unbeta-ed and un-britpicked. All errors are mine. All types of feedback highly appreciated.
> 
> ETA: Will be posting the final chapter by the end of the week.


	4. Fearless

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Let it out, it’s alright,” comforted John in a low voice. He couldn’t see Sherlock’s face from the curls that hid the other’s features from his line of sight but he was sure it showed the perfect picture of hurt and betrayal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, here's chapter 4, the final chapter of the Sweet Sacrifice series. This goes up to R for language and some suggestive scenes.

" ** _You will crumble under the weight of a thousand uncertainties! We are DOUBTLESS. I bind you with the vines of reservation and disbelief. You shall not desist! Constrain!_** "

“ ** _I repel your spell!!_** "

"You CANNOT desist. Your Sacrifice will receive more damage if you defy our spell. **_Constrain!_** "

There was a loud explosion of red and green lights from the center of the arena as FAITHLESS's Fighter was brought down on his knees with a glowing red vine-like whip of energy that extended from Victor's fingers. It wrapped around the defeated Fighter's neck, arms and knees.

“Finally, the spell got to you,” Victor said. “Didn’t think I could break you that easily to be honest.”

A loud cheering came from the crowd as a referee came out to stop the match. Sherlock had a cut on his neck but other than that he was scratch-free. The opponent's Sacrifice though had a torn sleeve and was bleeding from a deep gash on his wrists made by Victor's whip on the Fighter. The two Sacrifices moved forward and shook hands. Sherlock nodded while the other man smiled in acknowledgment.

"You have great partnership," the man said. He had a foreign accent. _Chinese?_ Sherlock wondered as the man continued to talk.

"However, you are not true pair. One cannot use full potential if not destined," the Chinese Sacrifice gave Sherlock's hand a small squeeze. "He will find his true Sacrifice. It will not be long."

"And you know this because?"

"I read movements in battle, you fight well but you two do not fit naturally. You are not Bonded. You have not Shed. It looks wrong," the man finished with a shake of his head. Sherlock retracted his hand from the man's grasp and glared.

"It's always about the Bond is it?" Sherlock asked in a low voice. His Ears were flattened back and his tail lashed out in big strokes behind him. He turned his back and exited the arena without waiting for an answer. Victor's voice beside him and the crowd's anxious voices were drowned out by blood pounding in Sherlock's ears as scenarios of Victor leaving crashed in wave after violent wave in his head.

"Sherlock wait!" cried Victor for the umpteenth time when his Sacrifice continued to stomp towards the direction of their hotel without looking back (or looking at the road for that matter). Sherlock was completely ignoring Victor's worried voice a few feet behind him. Victor increased his strides and when he was within reaching range, he grabbed Sherlock's elbow and whirled him around forcefully. Sherlock halted and glared. Victor noticed they were already in the lobby of the hotel.

"Will you please stop and talk to me? Why did you suddenly leave? What did the FAITHLESS Sacrifice tell you?" interrogated Victor with a hiss, trying to keep his voice down to prevent causing a scene. Even though Sherlock's tightly curled tail around his own torso and Victor's own tail puffed from anxiety were already clear indications of distress visible within a 100-meter radius.

Victor looked around when he noticed the increased chatter in the lobby and cursed under his breath. The tournament was over so people were pouring in from the stadium. It wasn't long before someone spotted them and asked for a picture and an autograph. One unlucky lady completely missed Sherlock's closed-off pose and the icy glare he sent her way. Victor signed the young woman's notebook then politely excused himself and Sherlock before more people could flock towards them. Victor didn’t want anyone to be at the receiving end of Sherlock's bad mood. Victor led Sherlock beyond the lobby and the two walked in uncomfortable silence. They were in the elevator when Sherlock spoke.

"You're leaving," stated Sherlock. He was leaning on the wall opposite the elevator door with his hands inside his trouser pockets. His Ears were flat lumps on his curly hair and his tail was still wrapped tightly around his own arm. Victor knew it wasn't good when Sherlock looked like that.

"Don't change the topic Sherlock, I was asking you about the other Fighter--"

"That was what he said- that you'll leave," said Sherlock in a hollow voice. "But thank you for confirming anyway that you'll be leaving on the next plane to Chicago in," Sherlock checked his watch. "Five hours."

Victor audibly gulped. "I was going to tell you--"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and turned to snap at Victor just as the doors opened and an old lady entered. Sherlock swallowed whatever he was about to say and stepped out of the suffocating metal box. He felt dizzy from the heightened emotion and supported himself on the long table opposite the elevator. He was breathing hard. He had known for two days that Victor was leaving for America after seeing the suitcases and the texts on his phone from his parents. However, anger still blinded Sherlock and he felt inexplicable hurt which made him want to punch Victor in the face for proving the Chinese man's prediction right. Angry tears burned behind his eyes.

"You knew already Sherlock. I thought-- even if I didn't tell you right away you'd find out anyway but of course I would _still_ tell you in the end," finished Victor. He had his hands clamped around Sherlock's upper arms to keep him steady and prevent him from lashing out at him which Sherlock looked close to doing if his shaking was any indication.

"You said you wouldn’t leave!" finally screamed Sherlock. He hadn't screamed since he was five and the consequence of the action on his vocal chords felt like fingernails viciously clawing the inside of his throat. The scream was an accumulation of the pent up frustration that has been steadily gathering within him the past few days when Victor refused to tell him anything. Sherlock seethed. He felt repulsion and anger with an intensity he was sure he had never felt in his life before. For the past five years he thought Victor understood what his position in  Sherlock’s life was. He thought that the man would stand up to his parents to fight for the only thing they had, the only thing Sherlock HAD. But Victor didn't. He wouldn't. It gutted Sherlock to be betrayed by the only man he allowed himself to trust, to care for. _To_ fucking _love_.

Sherlock pushed Victor away when the older man apologized and kissed him. Sherlock hastily wiped his lips with the back of his hand and almost spat on the marbled floor just to show his intense disgust. He was a wreck. He could hear Mycroft's voice in his head saying how disappointed their Mummy would be again. He opened his eyes and stared at Victor. For the first time in his life he tried to _read_ Victor Trevor. He hissed.

“You found her.” Bile rose behind Sherlock’s throat.

"Sherlock please," pleaded Victor. “Please understand _. I have to do this._ ”

Sherlock closed his eyes to keep himself from collapsing and to think. His realization and Victor’s last sentence reverberated, tumbled and echoed inside his head. Sherlock quietly stood there for some time. And to his relief, Victor didn’t try to touch him. It took seconds or perhaps minutes. _Or perhaps hours_. Sherlock didn't keep track. He was filing data away, reorganizing his priorities, _deleting_ unnecessary and now expendable data. He backed away and opened his eyes. When he stared at Victor he resolved to see someone different. It _had_ to end or he wouldn’t be able to move on. He wouldn’t be able to leave the _lie_ behind. He would delete Victor from his life.

And just like that Sherlock Holmes decided that the handsome man who stood before him, the man who used to be his trusted friend, the man who used to be his ally, the man who used to be his everything, the man who used to be the _only_ person in the goddamned world whose opinion mattered, whose _existence_ mattered, simply didn't matter anymore. It was over. Whatever delusion Sherlock had of a life with Victor was over.  All it took was a man’s simple selfishness. _You’re just like everyone else Victor._

_"Just stay away from me, please."_

\--

It was late in December and snow coated the streets like thick ice frostings on a cake. Most people stayed in the comforts of their heated homes even with the enticing post-Christmas sales everywhere. It has been a week since Sherlock came home for Christmas which didn't surprise Mycroft to Sherlock's annoyance. His arrival did make their Mummy happy and the woman was understanding enough not to ask Sherlock why he looked like he has been wasting away and why he didn't bring his Fighter home with him for Christmas to be introduced. Sherlock was relieved.

"You may stay for as long as you like. Mummy would appreciate your company. She has been lonely these days with Father constantly away like myself. There's really no need to trouble yourself finding a flatmate to split the rent with. Tut. Money is not an issue here. Now, if only you would allow me to help y--"

"I do not need your pity, Mycroft."

"I am merely looking out for my little brother. Mummy hates how you torture yourself like this. She has noticed your behavior lately, your emaciation and melancholy in particular."

"I do not torture myself," spat Sherlock as he threw the bow on the plush sofa. He would have thrown the violin instead if it weren't the Stradivarius Mycroft gave him six Christmases ago. However, if Mycroft continued to force Sherlock to stay in the family house until he ‘ _gets his feelings sorted out_ ’, he will chuck the wooden instrument at him and Sherlock will not feel sorry even a tiny bit.

Sherlock harrumphed and sprawled carelessly on the sofa while completely ignoring Mycroft who sat on the high-backed chair by the fireplace. Mycroft stared at his younger brother as the latter glowered at the innocent Christmas stocking by the fireplace. They were a tableau of contrasting figures: one almost as thin as a lamp post and the other plump enough like turkey served on Thanksgiving Day. Sherlock was about to make a scathing remark on Mycroft's perpetually increasing weight when three consecutive knocks brought the brothers out of their individual musings.

"Young master, breakfast is served," came the hearty voice of an old woman from the other side of the bedroom door. "Is Master Mycroft there sir? No one answered when I called him outside his room."

"I'm here Miss Claire," replied Mycroft, tapping his umbrella on the carpeted floor. "I'm afraid I won't be able to join Mother for breakfast today. Duty calls. Need to perform a number of legwork for Queen and country." Mycroft rubbed his temple and made sure he looked at Sherlock when he spoke the word 'legwork'.

"Very well then dear masters, Lady Violet will be at the dining table in eight minutes."

The two Holmes waited for the footsteps of the housekeeper to recede before continuing their conversation. Sherlock tilted his head and smirked at his brother.

"Walking won't kill you Mycroft," said Sherlock with a long-suffering sigh in imitation to the one his brother usually made. He twiddled his limp tail in a way not dissimilar when he twirled his violin bow on one end.

"If you accept this case it would relieve you of the boredom you complain about. It might also take your mind off certain recent events," persuaded Mycroft as he stood and ran a finger along the mantelpiece. He frowned when dust gathered on its tip.

"And save you from the legwork?" Sherlock shook his head in mock disapproval, brows gathering together to exaggerate. "I could always take cases from my website. Most are boring cases not worth looking over, true, but interesting Fighter dilemmas do occasionally turn up every other day," said Sherlock. He grabbed his laptop from the coffee table and settled it precariously over a single knee. He began typing in earnest. "And more often than not they prove to be more intellectually satisfying than your cases full of nothing but tedious legwork."

Mycroft sighed his long-suffering sigh. Sherlock’s imitation Mycroft noticed was not far off.

"Do you still need information regarding Victor Trevor?"

Mycroft saw Sherlock pause from his typing and visibly stiffen at the name. His tail thumped the back of his chair in discomfort. Mycroft pressed on unperturbed.

“He seems to have settled in America and is currently cohabitating with a woman who shares the same Name as his. ‘ _DOUBTLESS’_ it says in the report. But isn’t that _your_ Name, Sherlock?” Mycroft curiously looked up from the thin set of papers he held. Sherlock had his eyes closed. Mycroft watched as Sherlock gritted his teeth with a force that made his thin frame tremble all over.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft frowned. Something was clearly amiss. The younger Holmes had one hand on a death grip on his laptop. The other was pressed against his wrist. His nails dug against the Name etched there, deep enough to create red angry welts on the skin. His breath came out raggedly and Mycroft was sure Sherlock didn’t notice when the pressure of his nails made the skin on his wrist break and a thin line of blood trickled down to stain the immaculate carpet. Sherlock exhaled in short gasps as though someone was trying to asphyxiate him. Mycroft stared at the spot of blood on the carpet and felt _something_ tighten inside his chest.

“ _Sherlock.”_ He took a step towards the hyperventilating Sherlock and extended a hand to touch his shoulder when Sherlock suddenly cursed and threw the laptop. It hit with a sickening crack the leg of the chair Mycroft previously sat in before plopping harmlessly beside Mycroft’s foot. The older Holmes closed his eyes then rubbed the bridge of his nose as he muttered the word ‘messy’ under his breath. Sherlock stood up and looked at his brother, blank expression a contrast to the barely contained fury etched on his features a few seconds ago.

“Sherlock, we could arrange—“

“Breakfast,” Sherlock said curtly before turning on his heel to leave. Mycroft swore the slam of the door was loud enough to rouse the whole household.

\--

It started with snogging. Sherlock was kissing John fiercely and hungrily like he was expecting John to suddenly have a change of heart and be disgusted at Sherlock’s unexpected lack of inhibition. John felt thrilled and secretly enjoyed that part. He kissed back with equal enthusiasm, making sure to give Sherlock his snog of a lifetime. He was about to take things further when Sherlock abruptly stopped and rested his forehead against John’s. John looked at Sherlock worriedly. _Had he gone too far?_ _Was involving tongue too much for the still Unshed Sherlock?_ John’s thoughts of a bad performance were suddenly cut short when a single tear fell from the eyes above him and clung against John’s eyelashes. He felt himself blink several times and then tense up when the droplet was followed by a continuous stream of tears. He raised his hands to cup Sherlock’s cheeks and swept his thumbs over the other’s damp lashes. He felt Sherlock stifle a sob.

“Christ,” muttered John the second time that night. “Sherlock?”

“John, I trusted him.” John stamped down at the green-eyed monster that kept making an appearance ever since Sherlock mentioned the words ‘Victor’ and ‘boyfriend’ in the same sentence. He wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders so that Sherlock had his cheek against John’s chest. John moved his hand in a circling motion against Sherlock’s back as he felt the vibration of Sherlock’s subdued voice.

“Victor Trevor was a very convincing actor that he managed to fool me. _Me!_ He didn’t meet her in a bloody Charity Ball! He knew her months before he flew to America. Those surreptitious phone calls, those bloody emails he won’t let me see, those last minute out-of-town trips he made. Oh _God_. How stupid I was to have been played the whole _fucking_ time.” Unveiled fury tinted Sherlock’s cracking voice and John’s jumper grew damper every second as tear after angry tear relentlessly gushed down. John felt his heart break watching Sherlock like that but he knew Sherlock would only stop when he has taken the whole emotional weight off his chest. Thus, he patiently waited and made sure his heart didn’t fall out of his chest even if his friend’s anguish broke it bit by bit, maintained his calm reassuring hand around Sherlock and avoided interrupting as Sherlock vented out his bottled up anger. John steeled himself. He _hurt_ for Sherlock and he badly wanted to be angry at a man he _never_ met, a man who was already _dead_ yet still caused Sherlock so much pain and insecurity but John had to suppress all those violent emotions so he could be the pillar of support Sherlock clearly needed at the moment.

“Let it out, it’s alright,” comforted John in a low voice. He couldn’t see Sherlock’s face from the curls that hid the other’s features from his line of sight but he was sure it showed the perfect picture of hurt and betrayal.

“He had known about the wretched woman for _months_ and he was still staying with me John,” growled Sherlock, hands fisting the front of John’s sodden jumper. “He made me believe he was a Blank Fighter and I was HIS Sacrifice. And those promises to stay forever? Hah! I knew they were too good to be true. The thought that I erred to have given him the level of trust he clearly did not deserve is nauseating and disgusting. How dare he, just _how dare he_. So When Mycroft told me that the bastard _died_ I was happy John. I felt ecstatic!”

“Not g—“

“No, don’t tell me it’s not good,” Sherlock hissed fiercely. John felt Sherlock’s tail thump against his side in that angry manner before repossessing John’s waist.

“I was about to say ‘not good enough of an end’,” quipped John. He wasn’t sure he meant it but the angry snuffling against his chest stopped for a few seconds and he knew _that_ was enough. He heard Sherlock release an amused snort.

“John, oh _John._ ” Sherlock raised his head so he could look at John with the little consoling smile on his face. “Always the unpredictable one,” whispered Sherlock against John’s lips. John took the opportunity to distract Sherlock and planted a small kiss on the other’s lips. When he drew back, he felt his heart mend a little.

Sherlock _smiled._ It was one of the most beautiful smiles John had ever seen on anyone and it gave him hope that maybe Sherlock someday, will truly be able to close the painful chapter of his life with Victor Trevor. Full of affection, John smiled back and as he ran his fingers through Sherlock's locks he promised himself he would help Sherlock leave that chapter and make a new one with him regardless if doing so took a day or took years. He tried imagining his life without Sherlock Holmes and he found he really couldn't. _It's a sign. There's still a chance for the both of us_ , thought John as he wound his arms around Sherlock and buried his face against his hair.

\--

_“Is there something wrong with me?”_

_“Nothing’s wrong with you, darling.”_

_“Then why do they keep on leaving me?”_

_“It’s not your fault they don’t understand you, sweetheart.”  
_

“ _But all I did was point out the truth they were too blind to notice.”_

_“I know, love.”_

_“Is it bad to be always right?”_

_“Only when they think you’re wrong sweetheart.”_

_“Do other people’s thoughts matter?”_

_“Not everyone’s, love.”_

_“Will I matter to someone someday?”_

_“You will, dear. He’ll be there when you need him.”_

_“How do you know?”_

_“Mummy_ always _knows, love.”_

_“Will he be my true pair?”_

_“You’ll have to find out on your own, dear.”_

_\--_

Sherlock awoke with a start. He rolled to his side and raised an arm to shield his eyes from the rays of the sun peeking through the window. Window. The window was wrongly placed for his room. He looked around and focused on the Lucky Cat perched on the bedside table. Lucky Cat. _John_. He was in John’s room and the man was currently on the left side of the bed, sleeping soundly on his stomach with his face angled towards Sherlock. Sherlock watched John turn in his sleep and mutter something before keeping still again. He raked his eyes over John’s half-naked body and found his eyes transfixed on the scar on John’s shoulder. He slowly shifted closer, careful not to jostle John awake. He dipped his head down on the expanse between the sleeping man’s shoulder and neck. A pink tongue darted out to taste the skin with John’s Name naturally carved on it. To Sherlock’s delight, John’s flavor was a light peppermint with underlying musk but when he trailed his tongue up towards the bottom of John’s earlobe and inhaled _there_ , a heady mix of cinnamon and lavender scent deliciously assaulted his senses. He started his enthusiastic nibbling on the lobe and was rewarded with a low moan from John.

“Sherlock wha—?“ John’s eyes flew open and before he could elicit any further protest, Sherlock’s mouth descended on his lips to deliver a rather passionate morning kiss. When Sherlock broke the kiss, John was flushed and Sherlock felt John’s groin stir in arousal. He straddled John’s hips and made his tail brush over John’s erection. John shivered.

“Morning,” Sherlock chirped. “Hmm, what do you want to do John?” Sherlock bent over John and sucked at the Name on his shoulder. “Tell me.”

“Sher—nnn—lock, _mhmm—you.”_

“Oh? Do you want me?” purred Sherlock against John’s jaw. The man was squirming beneath him and Sherlock felt _marvelous._ It had been a while since he had control over a Fighter like this. The rush of power was exhilarating. He felt that little rumble beneath his chest echoing his satisfaction.

“Are you—did you just purr?” asked John incredulously as he turned his head to look at Sherlock. The movement made his lips brush a feathery kiss against Sherlock’s. “Sherlock Holmes, did you just purr?” Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Haven’t heard Unsheds purr before?”

“No, not really,” John chuckled. Sherlock sighed in reply.

“John Watson, I didn’t know you were such a cock-blocker,” Sherlock huffed with half-annoyance, half-amusement.

“I never expected you to say such word,” replied John. “Where did you pick that—oh God, Sherlock,” John’s voice changed into one of horror and wonder. He abruptly sat up which deposited Sherlock on John’s lap. Sherlock was looking at John with a confused look on his face. He tried to move but John had one hand on Sherlock’s waist to keep him from toppling over and the other hesitantly reached up to touch the skin below Sherlock’s jaw.

“Oh my God, Sherlock.”

“Are you going to keep saying that on a loop or are you going to _actually_ tell me what on earth is the matter?” When he received no reply, Sherlock raised his own hand to touch the spot John was tenderly caressing and watching with reverence. When he felt the smooth scars of what could only be a _Name that_ he previously didn’t have on that surface, he felt his breath leave him for a second. He looked down on his wrist where Victor’s carved Name was. The skin was completely healed and bore no signs of any scarring.

“I can’t believe—how is this possible?” John looked at Sherlock who was quietly murmuring something John could barely hear.

“My _name. My NAME._ ” Sherlock repeated as if in a daze. He stared at John who didn’t gaze away even from his intense scrutiny. “My natural Name never showed up until now. John Watson, you are my true pair. My _own Fighter._ Oh God,” he added in a whisper, disbelief etched in his body language.

“I would never have expected you of all people,” John said as he stared at the darkening Name on Sherlock’s shoulder. The contrast against Sherlock’s pale skin was stunning. “You mad brilliant wanker.” John whispered affectionately as he moved his mouth to kiss Sherlock’s new Name. “I still can’t believe it. Are you sure you didn’t put that on yourself while I was asleep?”

“Nonsense, of course not! It’s true John, this is real. I _am_ your Sacrifice,” whispered Sherlock in a tone of surprise followed by a little sigh of contentment when he felt John nip at the crevice between shoulder and neck. He ran his fingers over John’s own Name. It felt hot like burning coal under his fingertips.

“ _Mhmm_ ,” John breathed against Sherlock’s jaw line. He pushed Sherlock down on the bed and wrapped his hand around his Sacrifice. The warm enveloping feeling evoked a gasp from Sherlock. Sherlock closed his eyes and felt his body arch towards John as the man’s touches sent his skin blazing as though an inferno burned through his veins. Sherlock felt ecstatic and _alive._ He felt like he was finally Shedding. Perhaps he was and it was all because of John.

 _John._ Curious John who wanted to know _everything_ about Sherlock, patient John who complained yet always tolerated his moods and his habits in the end, reliable John who was always there at Sherlock’s beck and call, caring John who looked after Sherlock when he couldn’t look after himself, loving John who held him close at night and calmed him when he was reduced into nothing but a ball of anger every time he reminisced his past. Oh sweet kind _John. How did I come to deserve you?_ Sherlock wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.

“ _Sherlock Holmes, my sweet sacrifice.”_

Sherlock barely registered John’s low growl against his ear. He was ecstatic. He was high. Nothing else mattered at the moment as the whole point of his existence shrunk down to revolve around one ex-army doctor. Sherlock bucked, groaned and arched under John’s ministrations. There was no gentleness, there was only raw desire. The feeling of Bonding, of Shedding encompassed Sherlock. His whole being was accepting John, _uniting_ with John and his body was burning in all places like it was on fire. It felt like he was finally _alive._ And it was _glorious_.

END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who read my first crossover series! I hope you enjoyed reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and criticisms of all variety are highly welcomed and appreciated.


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